


Mouth of Cerberus

by Arsenic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical statutory rape mentioned, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poisoning, Sickfic, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-04-27 01:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: When Derek needs someone to help him recover from severe wolfsbane poisoning, Stiles is there, like he always has been, really.  (Based on the h/c-requesting prompt "Derek is long-term sick and Stiles helps him.)





	Mouth of Cerberus

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Mouth of Cerberus (Traducción)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176726) by [Igni1LB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igni1LB/pseuds/Igni1LB)



> To whomever gave promt #58 for this fic, thanks, I had a blast, and I hope this lives up to what you wanted, or is at least a fun read for you. Big thanks to TLC for the beta, any mistakes left are because I chose to ignore their wisdom.

Derek's so out of his head by the time the pack finds him, he tries to shift, tries to defend himself. Then Stiles says, "Hey there, hey, just us," and evidently there's not enough poison in the world to drive out the reaction Derek has to that voice. He goes still, and Stiles says, "Yeah, just—just give us a second to figure out what's going on here."

Now that Derek hasn't got fight-prep adrenaline forcing its way past all the wolfsbane, he probably couldn't move if that was what he wanted to do. But listening to Stiles is better anyway, so he goes back to trying to float over the pain.

There's a hissed, "Jesus," and a woman—Lydia, right—saying, "No, that'll make it worse, here, let me."

Something snaps against his skin. He can't really feel it, but he can hear it. Things get looser then, though. He screams when the rope scrapes his abraded skin, flakes of wolfsbane-laden splinters digging in. Stiles is saying, "Sorry, I'm…shit, sorry."

There's mumbling that he should be able to understand, but his senses are completely fucked through the haze of poison and fatigue and then Stiles saying, "Stay away. You can't—he's _bleeding_ this shit, you can't touch him."

Derek's head rolls to the side at that and he gets a blurry glimpse of Scott and Isaac standing with their hands out. He rasps, "No."

Lydia says, "Derek," her voice too-calm, and he knows she's found the series of spikes anchoring the ropes into him, while also slowly pumping him full up to his eyeballs of low-doses of wolfsbane.

He's closed his eyes, he realizes, so he forces them open, trying to find her. It's Stiles he sees first, though, and he says, "Get them out."

Well, he slurs it, but Stiles must understand because he braces Derek as gently and firmly as possible and looks over Derek's shoulder to where Lydia must be. Stiles says, "On three. One, two—"

Lydia pulls without waiting for the count and Derek thinks he screams before he passes out, but there might not be time.

*

Scott drives. Stiles and Lydia get Derek in the back of the car. He's deadweight and neither of them are wolves, so it takes a bit, but no way in hell is Stiles letting any of the wolves get even a touch closer than they already are. Derek is fucking radiating wolfsbane.

The drive to Deaton's is interminable. Stiles calls his dad on the way, gives him the details about the crime scene. It's a little bit out of his jurisdiction, but it's also not really inside anyone else's, except maybe the National Park Service. He'll take care of things.

Stiles keeps his voice steady and doesn't talk about how he's pretty sure Derek's dying with his head in Stiles' lap; Stiles unable to do anything but brush fingers through Derek's hair.

*

It's taken years, but Stiles has learned to read Deaton, and the man is concerned. Chris is already there, thankfully, since Stiles had been a little worried he might have been out policing some of the farther areas of the Argent territory. He's got a tacklebox with him that Stiles knows probably contains every wolfsbane varietal man has yet to discover.

They get Derek on the table. He rolls and throws up again: Stiles is covered in black poison from the ride over. Deaton says, "Everyone take three types and start making powders."

Stiles goes to work. He loses track of the number of times he hears the spark of a flame, and Derek screaming, clawing into the stainless steel of the table. Hour after hour, strain after strain, until suddenly there are no more, and Deaton sways. Scott catches him.

Chris is the only one brave enough to ask, "What now?"

Stiles knows the answer, though. It's there in the way Derek's skin hasn't healed completely from the rope abrasions, how his breathing is still labored, his breaths sometimes coming out in whimpers. Stiles says, "We wait."

*

Derek comes awake slowly, wondering if he fell asleep on the loft's tin roof again. Last time he did that, he had third degree burns where his skin had met the surface of the roof. It's like that, except the heat feels like it's everywhere. He rolls over, figuring he'll push himself up from his knees and get himself back into the loft, where things will cool down.

Only, instead of rolling onto his knees, he crashes to the floor. _Everything_ in him screams at once and he focuses on the gray of the floor, on breathing. Suddenly, Stiles is at his side, talking. Maybe he's been talking for a while, Derek's not sure. He works to listen and Stiles is saying, "Jesus, Der, if you wanted to wake me up, there were easier ways."

Derek opens his mouth to ask what is happening, but something that might be a mewl comes out instead. He shuts his mouth. Quietly, Stiles says, "You're running a pretty bad fever, buddy. Which, by the way, was something we didn't know werewolves could do, so, hey, thanks for clearing that up, but we'd all appreciate it if you stayed within the bounds of known quasi-science, huh?"

Stiles gets up and for a second Derek panics, thinking that he's leaving, but before Derek can get too worked up about it, Stiles is back with an ice pack wrapped in a towel, which he settles against the back of Derek's neck. It feels so good Derek just tunes into the sensation and floats with it for a bit.

He resurfaces to find himself still lying on his stomach, flat on the floor. Stiles is rubbing circles over his lower back. It's a grounding touch, helping with the way everything else seems to either burn or ache. Stiles must notice something, because he asks, "Back with me?"

"Mm," Derek says. It's all he can manage. Stiles rolls him over and props Derek up against Stiles' chest, putting a straw between his lips.

"Slow," Stiles says, and Derek does his best to follow the instruction. The water feels impossibly good. Stiles takes it away before he's ready to give it up, but Derek sees the wisdom when, after a moment, his stomach seems to flip.

"Breathe," Stiles says. Derek sucks in a breath, and then another, coughing when the second one gets stuck in his throat. Stiles rocks him through the worst of it.

As soon as he's done coughing, he starts shivering, which is miserable. Stiles says, "Fuck. Listen, Der, you need someone with you, and I get if having me is gonna drive you crazy, but it can't be any of the shifters. Chris said he can help if need be, and dad can definitely pitch in—"

Derek cuts him off with, "Want—I wanna go home, Stiles. Take me?"

Stiles doesn't hesitate. "Yeah, let's get you home."

*

Years earlier, when Derek's financial advisor had put him in touch with a real estate manager to handle the lofts as well as a few other buildings he'd bought for rehabilitation around the area, the manager had said, "You've got to get elevators put in if you want to be ADA-compliant."

Derek had been less concerned about compliance than about not being an ableist assface, truth be told, but he'd nodded and said, "Yeah, okay, let's do that."

Derek has never been so fiercely thankful for human laws as he is at this moment, riding in the elevator and not having to use Stiles as a crutch up three flights of stairs. Stiles is on his phone, very probably with Scott, since he's saying something about moving Derek's bed, and that's going to be easiest for the 'wolves.

Derek says, "I can just take the couch," since, yeah, he's not climbing the stairs.

"Okay," Stiles says, simultaneously rolling his eyes and going right back to talking to Scott or whomever.

Derek thinks about arguing, but even thinking about it makes him kind of tired. Stiles is hard enough to win against when Derek doesn't feel like something that's been thrown off the back of one truck and scraped off the bottom of another. 

Stiles does put him on the couch when they get inside the loft, bringing the quilt Derek keeps on his bed to wrap around Derek, and placing a glass of water on the coffee table. Derek falls asleep sitting up but not before informing Stiles probably a bit too solemnly, "It's cold. I need to get more blankets."

He wakes to the door opening and Scott, Malia, and Isaac creeping in, and then fades in and out as Stiles directs the guys to move his mattress down to the first floor, while Malia brings screens in from the car, which are used to cordon off the bed from the rest of the floor, presumably so Derek will have some privacy. 

Derek only barely remembers Stiles making him get up and move to the mattress, taking his shoes off, and covering him in the bed quilt and another blanket Derek is ninety-percent sure he does not own. He's appreciative, though, as even under the two layers he's shivering and miserable.

"Fucking wolfsbane," he grumbles. 

Stiles says, "Tell me about it," his fingers combing through Derek's hair and the soothing sensation of them ghosting over Derek's scalp allow him to settle back into sleep, despite the cold.

*

Derek wakes alone and in pain. The only reason he doesn't panic is because he's surrounded by the smell of pack. He looks next to him and notices there are t-shirts in a range of sizes surrounding him. Stiles must have had the pack donate one each. It's smart, probably the only thing that keeps Derek calm. He isn't surprised Stiles thought of it, but it doesn't change the fact that it's impressive just how good Stiles is at understanding wolves.

Derek rolls to his side and waits for the pain and nausea that moving causes to recede. Then he sits up. And waits again.

It takes a while to make it to his feet and step outside the screens. When he manages, he still keeps a hand on them, not entirely confident he's going to avoid crumpling to his knees. Derek imagines this is what being human is like, recovering from a beating, or perhaps just being sick. 

Stiles is at the kitchen table, watching something on his PC's screen, noise-cancelling headphones over one ear, tucked behind the other. He types every once in a while, but mostly seems to listen. Derek watches him, the glow of the computer screen highlighting the sharpness of his features. Too sharp, Derek thinks, like he hasn't been eating or sleeping enough.

There's been a lot of shit unfolding recently. And Stiles has a full-time job. One he should probably be at. Derek's knees almost do buckle after standing for several minutes, so he folds himself onto the ground. Stiles must see Derek out of the corner of his eye, because he types a bit, laughs at something, and then sets the headphones down.

He comes over to sit down across from Derek. "Hey, sorry, I figured you'd shout when you woke up, although, now that I'm saying that aloud it sounds like I don't even know you. You hungry? We should at least get you to drink something. Deaton said we need to do our best to flush out the rest of the wolfsbane."

Derek wraps his arms around himself, cold and having a hard time concentrating on what Stiles is actually saying. His voice is calming, though. 

"Der?" Stiles says.

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

"I told them there was a family emergency. I've been teleworking while you were asleep, but otherwise, I'm taking some leave."

"You shouldn't—I'm not—"

"Family?" Stiles shrugs. "I didn't think saying 'pack' was really gonna go over, and it's pretty much the same thing. Also, I'm an adult who gets to decide how to use his leave time, and you need someone here, so why don't we agree to disagree on this and you get back in bed and let me get you some broth? I'll make it the beef stuff that has actual protein in it."

The thing is, the pack has been functional for a long time now, even stable. There'd been the year of putting down the Hunter's Uprising, as Stiles likes to call the time after Gerard and Kate's deaths. And then the four years where Stiles had actually gone to college, been on the East Coast for most of the time, but spent summers doing internships in Sacramento. He'd gotten an entry level position in the FBI office in the Bay Area, and stayed there for a few years before moving into the private sector. Now he consults for law enforcement on what they evidently call "cases involving unusual parameters." Stiles likes to use air quotes every time he says it.

In that time, Derek has built up a small real estate empire in Northern California, taken up mountain climbing, learned to make his own built-ins, begun accumulating the books to put in them, and managed to find a few staples of cooking he can actually steadily turn out. Scott is finishing up vet school, Malia's held down a job with a landscaping company for the better part of three years, Jackson and Ethan moved into the Bay Area around the same time Stiles came home from school and are available on a moment's notice. Lydia finished a masters at MIT and came back to do a PhD at Stanford. She finally put a ring on Parrish about a year ago. Melissa and Chris are contemplating adoption, despite the fact that Isaac is still living with them, two years after coming back from France.

Mason's doing some fancy degree at Berkeley, and Corey's got an office job he seems to be pretty good at. Liam's playing pro-lacrosse down in Texas, but if they need him, he's never hesitated to hop on a plane. Fuck, even Theo and Peter have settled into being dependable, regardless of how much they like to grumble about it.

Point being, Derek has had something like seven or eight years to get used to being part of a functional, caring, solidly-built pack. That's probably the reason he hasn't noticed that somehow he's still been really, desperately lonely and unused to anyone helping him out. But Stiles is here when Derek needs him, and although Derek knows that Chris, Mel, Noah, Corey, or Mason would spell Stiles without asking questions, it's occurring to Derek that it's Stiles he _wants_ here. Stiles who hasn't so much as looked at him askance for being unable to stand up for longer than a minute, who hasn't made it seem like Derek is some kind of burden. 

Sure, Stiles most likely gave up being a high-ranking FBI agent to return to the pack, but his actions now still meaning something to Derek. Because that was for the pack, which Derek is one part of. Taking care of Derek is about Stiles giving a fuck whether Derek lives or dies. It shouldn't matter to Derek, that modicum of consideration. Derek doesn't claim to have completely gotten over all of his issues.

Derek must space out, thinking about these things, because Stiles says, "Yeah, okay, c'mon big guy, back in bed."

Derek does his best to take his own weight, but he can't stop himself from leaning into Stiles, breathing in his body heat, his scent. Stiles must realize the touch is helping. He holds on for longer than he really needs to, says, "You're doing great. You got this, dude."

Derek struggles not to dig his fingers into Stiles, hold him tight so he can't get away. Stiles stays anyway, stays until Derek is floating back to sleep again, and Stiles says, "Okay, but just for a little bit. Then broth."

*

Derek knows he loses track of time to fatigue and pain and the nightmares that plague him on an on-and-off basis. He knows Stiles doesn't leave, though. He can't say exactly _how_ he's so sure, he just is. Maybe it's because he regularly wakes from a building nightmare to the sound of Stiles saying his name and asking him a ridiculous question, or because the loft smells like Stiles in a way it takes a few days of inhabitance to build up. Whatever the case may be, he knows Stiles stays, he knows he should tell Stiles to go home, to take some time, to let someone else handle Derek, and he knows he's not going to. Derek is a regular fucking font of knowledge these days.

He wakes at some point—which is pretty much one of two things he does: sleeping and waking—hungry and actually feeling as if standing up will not end in disaster. Even so, he takes it slowly, using the wall to help sturdy himself until he's decently certain he can make it to the kitchen without faceplanting. Once past the screens, the dark outside the window informs him it's probably the middle of the night.

He glances over at the couch, and sure enough, there's a Stiles-sized blanket burrito on it. Derek shuffles into the kitchen area and rests when he makes it to the island. Having caught his breath, he moves to the fridge and considers his options. Between the fact that he's not good at creative cooking and Stiles has obviously cleared out anything that had gone bad at some point while Derek was sleeping, his options are limited. He takes out the orange juice, figuring it's a start.

Getting a glass and pouring himself some takes way more effort than Derek predicted. It's bizarre how much energy everything takes. Stiles seems to think this is a normal healing process, but what's normal for a human is foreign for a were. 

He must make too much noise putting the juice back, because the Stiles Burrito makes its ways into the kitchen area, hair mussed, yawning, and asking, "Why didn't you wake me up, dude?"

Derek has long stopped bothering to try and get Stiles to stop calling him dude. More important things. He does his best not to collapse onto one of his bar stools, but rather to control his descent. He's not sure how successful he is. When he goes to take a sip, his hand shakes and he has to wait until he's certain he can lift the glass. He buries his face in his arms and bitches silently about how much everything sucks.

Stiles comes around to where Derek is, making all the noise a sentient blanket burrito makes, and folds himself over Derek's back. "Hey there."

Derek closes his eyes, taking in the feel of Stiles against him. It's a little like cheating, using how pathetic he feels to get Stiles-cuddle-action, but Derek has never said he was above cheating. He's sure as shit not when it comes to Stiles. He grumbles, "This sucks."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "I know. It sucks when it happens to me, and I'm actually used to being sick and other stupid human shit."

Derek actually thinks that only makes his own whininess more sad sack, but he appreciates that Stiles doesn't act like he's being a huge baby. He forces himself to sit upright again. "Thanks for staying."

Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek says, "Don't—don't, okay? Just. Don't make it something less."

Because Derek doesn't have anyone to take care of him, not really, not when it comes to the details, when it comes to this sort of thing, and it matters to him. He wants—needs—it to matter to Stiles.

"Missing the point," Stiles says, moving away. Derek does not make a sad sound. He does not.

"And what is that?"

"I'm not making it something less. I'm mocking you for the fact that you think there was any other option for me." Stiles opens the fridge and pulls out the carton of eggs.

"I don't—" Derek frowns. "Of course there were options. We discussed the options. Your dad, Chris—"

"Jesus Christ, Der. You know how much easier my life would be if I didn't think it would be scarring for your seriously traumatized self if I were to just kiss you and get everything out through a rousing round of sex and then some pillow talk?"

Derek blinks. "What?"

Stiles blinks back, and then flinches with his entire body. "Um. I'm a little sleep deprived. Let's just—"

"You haven't liked me that way in _years_."

It's Stiles’ turn to ask, " _What?_ "

"Not since you went off to college."

"No, seriously, what the hell are you even—"

"Aroused is a very specific smell, and one of the many that it is not even just a little bit socially acceptable to actually let on that you notice."

Stiles runs a hand over his face and mutters about people with sexual trauma. Derek does his best not to feel like a broken piece of tech that isn't doing what Stiles wants it to. Stiles takes several deep breaths. "It is late, and I am not running at full capacity, but Derek, just because someone stops popping a boner every time they're around the guy they want to live happily ever after with, it doesn't mean they've stopped having the crush to end all crushes on him. It means they've gotten past puberty."

Derek shakes his head. "But there was that Henrietta girl at GW, you were with her for almost a year, and Rhett, from the LA field office, and—"

"Well, yeah, I wasn't going to pine like some eighteenth century heroine. You're one of my best friends. And if I wanted more from you, that was my problem."

As soon as he physically can, Derek is going to go for a run through the woods screaming at the top of his lungs for at least three miles. "I waited until you were—until I thought you could make that decision as an adult. I _waited_ , but by then you didn't smell interested anymore, and you came back here, and to the pack and I wasn't going to ask for anything more than that, I wasn't—"

"Oh fuck."

Derek stares at Stiles for a moment, but yeah, that about sums this situation up, so he just nods. Stiles swears a little more. Then he says, "I'm making you some eggs and toast, which you're going to eat, because you've lost like twenty pounds in the last two days with your body trying to heal everything. And then we're gonna cuddle like nobody has ever fucking cuddled before, and sleep a whole bunch, and then you're going to eat something again and then, and _only_ then, are we going to have this conversation."

Derek considers arguing, but he's hungry, and tired again, and he gets cuddling without having to ask for it. He says, "Cuddling sounds good."

Stiles laughs. "You're such a fucking marshmallow."

*

Derek isn't tactile because he's a 'wolf, he's tactile because he grew up in a pack. Omegas or bitten wolves don't necessarily develop the desire for it. Derek's tactile nature has only been made worse by the years when he didn't trust anyone to get near enough to touch, when nobody bothered to fight to get that close to him.

He wakes with Stiles wholly atop him. His muscles are still aching with the aftermath of being inundated by poison, and everywhere Stiles presses into his skin screams a little bit with heightened pain, but he breathes through it, unwilling to give up the touch.

He has no idea how long he stays there, pinned underneath Stiles. Derek's pretty sure, despite feeling like his insides have been hollowed out, tenderized, and shoved back in him, that he could lift Stiles off. Even if he wanted too, though, it would take effort he's just not feeling up to at the moment.

Stiles jerks awake calling Derek's name. Derek takes an elbow to the side and sees stars for a second. Stiles is saying, "Oh, shit, Der, fuck."

Derek says, "I'm here." Well, he gasps it. Still, his point is made. "I'm here. I'm okay."

Stiles makes a noise. "You're alive. Let's not push it."

Derek takes his point. "I need meat."

"Deaton said—"

"Deaton probably said he's never seen a 'wolf with that much wolfsbane in them, and he's got some ideas of what to do, but we're in uncharted territory."

Stiles tilts his head. "He made himself sound a little more in control, but basically."

"I need meat. If I thought my body would support it, I would shift and hunt, that's how strong the urge is."

Stiles looks at Derek for a moment, then nods. "I'll make it happen."

It occurs to Derek that it's no small miracle how he knew that would be Stiles' response.

*

Derek takes a bite of the burger Stiles sets in front of him. "Holy—what did you season this with?"

"The blood of your enemies," Stiles responds, taking his own bite.

Derek snickers. "Okay, but other than that."

"Garlic, Worcester sauce, the spicy kind of paprika, and a touch of cinnamon."

"Huh." Derek would have never thought of that. "Cinnamon."

"It has antibacterial properties."

"I don't have the flu."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, the flu isn't bacterial, so you're probably onto something there."

"You know what I mean."

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah. Flu would've been better."

Derek, who's mostly been feeling too miserable to think outside the moment, has a sensory flash of one of the times they'd put a needle in him, injected just a little of the yellow, which caused the embers of the purple they had circulating through the anchors to flare. His breath catches and Stiles says, "Whoa, hey, look at me. Look at me."

It isn't Stiles' voice that brings Derek back so much as the feel of his palm against Derek's cheek. Derek stares at Stiles for a moment before closing his eyes, trying to compose himself. He opens them and says, "Definitely would have preferred the flu."

"You've never even had one, how would you know?" But he leans forward, touching their foreheads together.

"Wild guess," Derek says.

"When they had you, I—I went AWOL on my job. I only still have it because my boss is a friend of Lydia's from back east. Not even Scott could calm me down."

That shouldn't even be possible. Stiles shouldn't be able to resist the influence of the alpha, human or not. Pack is pack. "I was just checking the mail."

"We've got to set up better protections here. I'm serious, we can't—"

"I know," Derek says softly. He doesn't want to lose this, either. For so long it wouldn't have mattered to him, but now. Now it matters.

"Eat," Stiles says. "Eat, and then—then."

Derek nods. "Then."

*

Derek falls asleep the moment he's eaten and gotten himself settled on the mattress again. He wakes up to the sound of Stiles typing and calls out, "Fuck, sorry."

Stiles laughs a little, but shuts down the computer and makes his way toward Derek's space, stepping into the partitions and sinking to his knees on the mattress. He curls up against Derek in a way that makes it hard to think. Derek's not certain he's going to be able to have this conversation with Stiles surrounding him in this way. Stiles rises up and kisses Derek, says, "Maybe take the edge off a bit?"

"Yes," Derek agrees. He knows he hasn't got much beyond making out in him, but he's not all that disappointed. He's always thought he'd enjoy a slow seduction, and while one might argue that over ten years was a little too slow, he still wants to take his time with these things, figure out piece by piece the last parts of Stiles he's never been allowed to learn.

Stiles talks as they kiss, and it makes Derek laugh, because he probably should have expected that. It's rambling, but coherent, and not even dirty, just happy. Derek clings to Stiles, keeps going until he's having a hard time breathing, and the aching in his muscles is too much to ignore.

Stiles must notice Derek's wince, because he says softly, "Wish I could take the pain."

Derek doesn't. It's been a long time since Derek's wanted to cause Stiles pain in any way. Derek says, "I just want you here."

"Yeah, no worries, Dad's gonna bring some more clothes. I'm here for as long as you need me."

"Not just for that." He would say "not just for as long as I need you," but actually, that's pretty accurate. It's only that Derek is always going to need Stiles.

"Hm?"

"I own seven buildings. Let's make one of the penthouses ours."

"Oh," Stiles says. "Oh, you're asking me to move in with you."

"I'd take things slower, but at this point I'm worried we'll make it another decade without getting to second base."

"Wow, I didn't think you knew baseball metaphors."

"Hilarious," Derek says. He doesn't let himself panic. Stiles is still giving off every indication of being relaxed.

"Okay, but I get a Geek Cave."

"Really? You don't say. Shockingly, I've read the guide for the Care and Feeding of Younger Stilinskis. Don't worry, I'll make sure the habitat has everything you need to survive."

"Great," Stiles says, doing a bang-on job of ignoring Derek's sarcasm. "So, since that definitely includes you, I guess we should do the thing."

Derek grins and parrots, "Great."

*

It's probably six days after the pack rescued him that Derek wakes up feeling like he could shower without falling over and possibly even make himself some food before needing a nap. He rubs Stiles' stomach and says, "Hey, I think I'm through the worst of it, you should probably go to work."

"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it." Stiles doesn't even open his eyes.

"Well, since you're doubting me, wanna come make sure I don't fall in the shower?"

Stiles pops one eye open. Slowly, he says, "Yeah, um. For safety's sake. I should probably do that."

"Safety first," Derek says.

"Totally the pack's motto."

It still hurts every damn muscle in Derek's body to laugh, but he does until he can't breathe.

*

"This one," Stiles says, pointing at the building Derek bought about two years back. It's not a reclaimed warehouse like the one he's currently in, but an old office building. It was converted into condos sometime in the late '80s, but the outside still has the brick and stately charm of its 1920s origins.

"Yeah?" Derek asks.

"Close enough to the preserve, but also a pretty good commute for me. The top floor's roughly 2500 square feet which gives us enough room to have a few guest rooms and an office, as well as a significant main area and master suite." Stiles shrugs. "Plus, I like the look of it. Like it's seen things."

"I think I have a couple of tenants on that floor right now, but I'm pretty sure I could convince them to move down the street. The units there are a little pricier but a lot nicer. I haven't done much work in this building yet, mostly just functional stuff."

"Okay, see what you can do."

Derek will give them a free month's rent and pay for their moving expenses. He has no doubt that will do the trick. If that's the home Stiles wants, that's the home Stiles is getting.

"We're gonna need a bigger shower," Stiles tells him.

Derek grins. "You saying you have an issue with forced proximity to me?"

"I'm saying that I want space to get it on with you, and to not be risking a concussion just from standing up after I blow you."

"I mean, I guess we could look into that."

Stiles looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "You guess, huh?"

Derek leans over and kisses him. "It's an educated guess."

**Author's Note:**

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> Author Responses: This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason whatsoever, you feel shy, you have anxiety, just because, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate the comment and respect your wish that I not respond.


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